


the long and the short of it

by epoenine



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drinking, First Kiss, M/M, discussions, richard siken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:00:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epoenine/pseuds/epoenine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A familiar bell rings, alerting him that someone has entered his bookstore. For a second, his whole being hopes it’s Crowley, because sending his love in all directions is tiring as ever, since the demon never tells Aziraphale where he’s going, just disappears one day, and Aziraphale has to hope that his love with find Crowley eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the long and the short of it

**Author's Note:**

> very heavily based on Richard Siken's "the long and the short of it"  
> enjoy!

The years do not bleed together, like most humans think. A common misconception is that over time, one hundred years will feel as short as a day. Aziraphale does not know where this misconception comes from. Each day feels as long as the last, perhaps longer, dragging on into eternity. Ineffability for humans is ignorance. For angels, it is purpose. The dragging of each Monday is all part of the Ineffable Plan, or so they say.

Years do not pass with every blink of an eye. Sometimes, when he’s in a risk-taking mood, Aziraphale will close his eyes and count to three.

He opens them.

Nothing changes. It’s still late on a Tuesday night. Few are out on the streets. His bookshop is quiet as ever. Crowley is gone, somewhere across the English channel, maybe in France, maybe in Spain, where the humans are easier to tempt and there’s a different angel, this one more inclined to Fall.

Three millennia does not pass as fast as three seconds.  

Lost souls stroll outside his shop and with a single thought, Aziraphale sets them back on the right track. They look refreshed and renewed. While he is not frequently proud, the fact that he is doing his job, serving his God, makes him hold his head higher.

A familiar bell rings, alerting him that someone has entered his bookstore. For a second, his whole being hopes it’s Crowley, because sending his love in all directions is tiring as ever, since the demon never tells Aziraphale where he’s going, just disappears one day, and Aziraphale has to hope that his love with find Crowley eventually.

He prepares himself to scare the customer away, because while he’ll be quick to deny it if Crowley ever states it, it _is_ actually just a place for him to keep all of the books he’s acquired over the years.

Crowley makes himself present, and quite belatedly, Aziraphale notes that he looks like Sin, like something deadly, like _temptation_. He takes the wine out from under the counter and takes a swig, right from the bottle, looking beaten down as he holds it out for Aziraphale to sip, and then they promptly ignore the fact that their lips have touched the same glass _O_ of the opening. A kiss once removed.

They get properly drunk before discussing what’s on their minds. It’s routine--capital f Feelings don’t come up unless their minds are hazy and fogged.

Here is the angel, here is the demon. Here they are drinking wine and talking human nature like they’re separate from it. The most terrifying question they can come up with right now is this: _have I been assimilated into the ways of humans?_

“I don’t think so, angel,” Crowley says. He sounds defeated. “Humans made their own side, and just because we’ve lived like them for six millennia doesn’t mean that we’re on it. Humans are not inherently good, but you are.” He stops, letting the significance of the statement sink in, weighing them both down. “If humans wanted to change the world, they would. Wars would cease, illness would be cured. But I’ll tell you a secret,” Crowley leans in, lowering his voice. “Most of them like it this way. Gives life a sense of excitement, and all that.” His eyes are mischievous and his breath smells sweet like the wine.

Aziraphale is silent for a long time. “I want something different.” He takes a swig of the _sauvignon blanc_ and sighs. “But you know how I am, dear. Trying too hard, getting ahead of the Ineffable Plan. Divinity ruins everything by turning it to gold.” The angel pauses, regarding Crowley. “I’m learning how to be gentle.”

“Who cares? Nobody said you had to be _gentle_ ,” he says, throat constricting as he takes another he drink. He wipes the wine off of his mouth. “Tear them to shreds. You know the saying--kill them with kindness.”

At that, Aziraphale beams, and the black slits surrounded by the yellow of Crowley’s eyes glisten with something akin to mischief. “That was uncharacteristically helpful of you, Crowley,” Aziraphale drawls, smile gone sideways. “Thank you.”

“Of course, angel,” Crowley says, masking his Feelings with mock-sarcasm.  “Anything for you.”

It’s uncomfortably silent for the next few seconds, the weight in the air heavy as lead. Aziraphale is flushed and his eyes are serious, looking at Crowley with an intensity that makes him shift under the gaze.

“Is there a problem?” Crowley asks, his voice hoarse, no louder than a whisper. Aziraphale shakes his head, because it’s too difficult to say _I want to be closer to you_. The demon shrugs, downing the rest of the wine before standing. “I better get going, then. Humans to tempt and all that.” He flashes a quick, nervous smile before making his way to the door, not looking back until he turns to wave.

Aziraphale, with his curls tousled and his mouth parted from the protest he was about to make, cautiously walks towards Crowley with carefulness that suggests the demon’s a predator and the angel is his prey. He doesn’t stop until they’re inches apart, Aziraphale just reaching Crowley’s chin.

Gently, Aziraphale brings their mouths together, their lips touching in a chaste, gentle kiss. It lasts no longer than two seconds, but it’s enough to make heat curl in Aziraphale’s stomach, to make Crowley’s heart beat wildly.

Just as Aziraphale is starting to pull back, Crowley brings his hand up to the back of the angel’s neck, kissing him deeply, letting the slick slide of tongues elicit a quiet whimper from Aziraphale, who wraps his arms around Crowley’s neck and brings him closer.

When he pulls back, both of their cheeks are adorned with splotches of red. Crowley thinks it’s quite beautiful on the angel, and Aziraphale thinks it’s fascinating on the demon. Both are holding each other’s gaze, eye with dilated pupils boring into each other, breath coming short and fast.

“See you tomorrow, my dear,” Aziraphale says, almost breathlessly, lips tugging upwards in a smile, before turning and giving Crowley a quick glance behind his shoulder as the latter walks out the door.

It takes Aziraphale a minute before his impossibly wide grin takes over and he shuts the lights of the bookshop off, trudging upstairs to brew tea and call Anathema with his news.


End file.
